


we'll build our altar here

by vulnavias



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 05:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16130975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulnavias/pseuds/vulnavias
Summary: Papa returns home from tour and calls a private meeting with Cardinal Copia. Set after the last of the Iron Maiden gigs, but before Papa 3's final shows in Sweden. Sex with feelings! A little angst! Some religious themes! Fun for everyone!





	we'll build our altar here

**Author's Note:**

> It's been 84 years since I've written fic and I have never written Ghost fic, so who knows if this mess is even readable.
> 
> Warning for some _very light_ alcohol use. They have a few sips of wine; no one is drunk or drinking nearly enough to impair their judgement.
> 
> Also, much of the angst here very probably stems from the reader's knowledge that Papa 3 is soon relieved of his duties and murdered, so... enjoy.

The atmosphere at the ministry has been tense. There are whispers, rumors that Copia pretends not to hear and hopes are not true. Sister Imperator knows something but, despite his role as her second in command, she has some secrets that even he is not privy to.

The tension is momentarily forgotten when Papa returns. He's been away on tour for months and the entire congregation bursts into a flurry of activity as soon as he arrives. Clergy members flock to him with all manner of business and requests. Copia is patient. He doesn't need to rush to Papa's side like a loyal lapdog; instead, he keeps to himself and waits for the summons he knows will come eventually.

It comes sooner than he expected. He's feeding his rats – introducing his pets to a new friend: a small, barely half-grown mouse that he saved from one of Special's hungry cats – when there's a knock at his door and a Ghoul sticks their head in. “His Unholiness requests your presence.” Copia finishes his task and takes a moment to clean up. He doesn't want to appear over-eager, but he also doesn't want to keep Papa waiting. As he leaves, he pauses at the mirror hanging by the door, smoothing his cassock and making sure he looks his best.

The youngest Emeritus brother has never been particularly orthodox. It's not uncommon for him to conduct business in his private quarters, fortunately enough for Copia, since it means no one among the clergy bats an eye at him frequently coming and going from Papa's rooms. Their relationship is one of very few things kept truly secret in the ministry. Relationships between the Papa and members of the clergy are not forbidden but neither are they encouraged, and it would not bode well for Copia if his colleagues thought he achieved his rank simply by sleeping with the boss. He doubts he is the only one within the church's walls to share Papa's bed, but it's in their best interest to keep things quiet.

So when Copia enters Papa's chambers, full of Ghouls and Sisters of Sin all eagerly in attendance to the pontiff, he upholds every formality, kneeling and bowing his head, waiting to kiss Papa's ring if it's offered. It isn't.

Papa sits at a large vanity, elaborately carved marble framing the large mirror he's using to touch up his skull paint. A Sister of Sin sets a tray of fruit and a decanter of wine in front of him. Copia doesn't meet his gaze but he can feel Papa watching him. “You're looking well, Cardinal.”

“It is good to have you back, Papa.”

Papa hums and pops a grape into his mouth. Despite the buzz of activity around him, he seems positively bored. “So, how is everything? I hear you got Employee of the Month again. Tell me, how do you breathe with your head so far up Sister Imperator's ass?”

Copia can hear the smile in Papa's voice but he still bristles a bit at the jab. He knows that Sister Imperator has taken a liking to him, for reasons he doesn't understand himself, and he isn't so arrogant to think that he would have risen to the top of the food chain among the clergy so quickly without some amount of favoritism on her part – and Papa's. And if what he's heard is true, things could change for all of them very soon. Copia tries not to think of that. He likes things the way they are.

Papa frowns. “I'm only teasing, Copia.” When he doesn't respond, Papa dismisses the gaggle of attendants, leaving the two of them alone. A long silence stretches between them before Papa gets up, crosses the room and pulls Copia to his feet. “Come on, get up.” He drags Copia to a black velvet sofa and drops him unceremoniously into the seat.

He makes his way back to the vanity and picks up the decanter of wine. “Alright, what's wrong?” he asks, pouring them both a drink. “You're not yourself.” He hands Copia a glass and sits next to him on the sofa, lounging like a cat in a horrible, tacky floral silk robe that's half open at the top and just an inch or so away from being obscenely short (of course, he is wearing nothing underneath). He stretches one leg along the length of the sofa and rests his foot in Copia's lap. 

The familiarity of it, this casual intimacy, eases Copia's mind a little. He takes a sip of wine before he speaks. “I've heard rumors,” he says, eyes firmly locked on the deep red liquid in his glass, “that your father is coming.”

Papa tenses for a fraction of a second, a flicker of movement that most people would have missed. Copia isn't most people. He knows Papa better than that and he knows his relationship with his father is strained, to say the least. Papa recovers quickly. “So what,” he scoffs, waving his hand nonchalantly. “What's that old bastard going to do? He can barely get around. He's just going to come in here and give me the same old shit about _continuing the bloodline”_ – he says that last part in an eerily convincing impression of his father's voice – “and then he'll crawl back into retirement and no one will hear from him again for another year or so.”

Copia hopes that's true, but he has his doubts. The clergy have been whispering that Papa Nihil isn't pleased with the way his son has been running things. It's true that the youngest Emeritus is certainly the least pious; his faith is strong but he has no intention of devoting his life fully to religion. While his stint at the helm of the band has increased the spread of their message to the masses tremendously, he is notorious for neglecting formal business. The clergy members who rushed to his side upon his return with petitions and other official issues have almost all left their meetings with him disgruntled, appalled by his general lack of interest and overly casual demeanor. He rarely attends rituals, usually leaving Copia or Sister Imperator to conduct the ceremonies in his place. Copia doesn't mind, but he worries that Papa's lack of dedication in church matters – not to mention his extravagance other areas – will eventually get him into trouble with his father. And now that there is talk of Nihil returning...

For all that Copia is supposedly Nihil's “right hand man,” what that really means is running errands, carrying out tasks Nihil is too frail to do himself, and pulling his oxygen tank when he makes his rounds. It's hardly a glamorous position. He's also fairly certain that the old pontiff only gave him the role to indulge Sister Imperator. Copia has always gotten the distinct impression that Nihil doesn't like him at all.

He doesn't voice his concerns to Papa for fear that speaking aloud them will give them life. “He has never liked me,” is all he says, taking another sip of wine.

“He doesn't like anyone,” Papa says. In an attempt to dispel the unpleasant mood, he nudges Copia's thigh with his toes. “Don't worry your pretty head about him, _topolino_.” Copia smiles a little at the nickname. “Besides,” Papa continues, moving closer to Copia and taking his wine, setting both of their glasses on the table next to the sofa, “I did not send for you to discuss my father.”

Papa cups Copia's face with one hand, turns his head and forces him to meet his gaze. He rests his forehead against Copia's, brushes their lips together with a promise of the kiss that Copia has been longing for ever since Papa left months ago. He forces all anxiety out of his mind for the time being. Right now, this is all that matters.

“I certainly hope not.”

Finally, Papa kisses him properly, crushing their mouths together and closing the seemingly infinite stretch of time spent apart, erasing every empty day and unbearably lonely night Copia endured without him. He brings his hands to Papa's neck and kisses him deeper, slides his tongue past his lips, hungry for more. When Papa breaks the kiss, he tugs at Copia's bottom lip with his teeth. Then in one swift, graceful movement he climbs onto Copia's lap, straddling him and grinding their hips together.

He grabs the Cardinal's biretta and tosses it to the floor. He runs his fingers through Copia's hair and pulls gently as he kisses him again, quick and chaste compared to the first, then breaks the kiss to murmur quietly against his lips, “Did you miss me?”

 _Yes. Terribly._ “A little.”

Copia doesn't ask if Papa missed him as well because he might not want to know the answer. It would be naive to think that Papa wants for company while he's on the road. Copia knows he has many lovers all over the world and that he lavishes each of them with so much affection that they all feel, in the moment at least, that he only has eyes for them. That's just Papa's way; he is a generous lover who finds pleasure in giving pleasure to others. But sometimes Copia allows himself to hope that what they have is special, that perhaps Papa feels something different, something _more_ , for him than he does for the rest.

He loses himself in the feeling of Papa's body pressed against his, in the warmth radiating from him, in his taste and his smell and the way he moans into Copia's mouth. He slides his hands beneath that hideous silk robe, kneading Papa's ass and relishing the weight of his hardening cock against his own.

Time passes unnoticed. Maybe they stay like this, making out and rubbing against each other like horny teenagers, for a few minutes, an hour, or even longer. Neither of them seem to care. Eventually, though, Papa pulls back, eyes dark, the paint on his lips smeared, and gets to his feet. He grabs Copia's hand and leads him to the bed, an enormous thing with an ornate oak headboard and deep purple sheets of pure Egyptian cotton sateen that were shockingly expensive. Copia will never forget the look on Sister Imperator's face when she went over that month's expense report, but he must admit he loves the feel of these sheets against his skin.

Papa sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Copia between his legs. Slowly, he begins to dismantle the Cardinal's vestments, holding his gaze silently as he unfastens each button. When he finishes and Copia stands naked before him, Papa leans back to drink him in. Copia doesn't shrink under the scrutiny. Modesty has never been one of his virtues and he savors the blatant lust in Papa's eyes.

Every nerve in his body comes alive when Papa touches him, when he runs his hands up Copia's sides, across his chest, and down his back. “It's a shame to hide your body underneath those robes,” he says admiringly. He snakes his hands around to Copia's ass. The slap is not unexpected but the loud _smack_ is jarring in the otherwise quiet room. “I'd like to see this ass in some tight leather pants,” Papa purrs, squeezing the asset in question. “We will have to get the tailors to fit you for something more appropriate. Something... sexy.” He looks up at Copia with a mischievous smile. “Something you will only wear for me.”

Copia brings his hands to Papa's face, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip. Papa sucks the finger into his mouth and Copia's cock aches with envy – but not for long. Papa quickly pulls his mouth away from Copia's thumb and leans forward to wrap it around the head of his dick. Copia's knees go weak and he puts one hand at the base of Papa's neck to steady himself, tangles the other in a fistful of black hair. Papa hums around him as he grabs Copia's hips and pulls him forward to take his full length. When Copia feels the head of his cock meet the back of Papa's throat, something stirs within him right down to his soul. It's blasphemy to think so, but the glorious heat of Papa's mouth around him is one of the closest things to true rapture that Copia has ever felt. No religious experience can compare. He has seen miraculous things during rituals, he has felt the presence of their Infernal Master, but none of it holds a candle to being with Papa, to being inside Papa or taking Papa inside himself. The whispers that pass between them in this room are more like prayer than the hymns and incantations Copia has spent years learning. 

Papa is merely their Lord's representative on earth, not a deity himself, but Copia worships him. He isn't the only one. Papa inspires near-religious adoration in millions of devotees across the globe; it's why the band has become so popular under his leadership.

Papa pulls off for air, runs his tongue along the underside of Copia's cock before devouring him once more with a deep, ravenous growl. Copia begins to gently rock his hips forward and Papa drops his hands to his own cock, letting Copia set the pace and fuck his mouth as he pleases. The delicious wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of Papa's mouth fills his ears, along with his own heavy breathing and Papa's muffled moans. He could come easily like this, spill his seed down Papa's throat, but he needs more. He has been longing for it and dreaming of it for months, placating himself with memories and his own hand, and now that he finally has Papa – _his_ Papa – back, he doesn't want to wait any longer.

Copia pulls out and lets Papa catch his breath. He drags the head of his cock across Papa's mouth, spreading saliva and precum on his swollen lips. Papa tries to take him back into his mouth and frowns a little when Copia shakes his head and backs away, but he quickly gets the message. He crawls to the head of the bed and opens the nightstand drawer. Copia knows what manner of toys and tools are in that drawer, and he imagines which of them he might use on Papa later, which of them he will let Papa use on him. But for now, they only need each other – and a little lube.

Copia climbs onto the bed and Papa presses the tube of lubricant into his hand with a kiss. He can taste himself on Papa's tongue when he licks into his mouth, deepening the kiss as he leans Papa back onto the lush pillows. Papa spreads his legs in wanton invitation. Copia groans and takes in the sight before him. Papa's hair is a mess, his paint is smudged, but his eyes are dark and hungry, his mouth is slick and swollen, and he has never looked more beautiful. He wraps one hand around his cock and the other reaches out for Copia, pulling the Cardinal down to lie on top of him and kiss him again. Copia grinds their hips together but the friction isn't nearly enough. He tears himself away from Papa's luscious mouth to open the tube in his hand, to slick up his fingers and spread some lube around Papa's hole before slowly, gently pressing one finger inside.

Papa keens, his eyes flutter shut, his right hand twists the head of his cock. Copia eases his finger in to the hilt, then pauses to let Papa adjust to the intrusion before pulling slowly out and back in again. He builds a gentle pace, careful not to hurt Papa by going too fast too soon. When he finally adds a second finger he's rewarded with the sound of his name as a low, guttural groan emerging from somewhere deep within Papa's throat. Copia can't help but smile. He knows the pleasure of Papa's fingers opening him up to take his cock, of that first, sweet burn when Papa is finally completely inside him. He also knows how much Papa loves when it's his turn to be on the receiving end, how he comes completely undone when Copia starts to fuck him in earnest, setting a bruising pace that he knows will draw the most exquisite sounds from Papa. Copia's cock throbs in anticipation of Papa stretching around him, that tight heat swallowing him whole, but he is nothing if not patient.

When he adds a third finger at last, Papa begins to rock his hips and fuck himself on Copia's hand. His cock drips precum and Copia leans down to lap it up with his tongue. Papa grabs him by the hair and pulls him up for a sloppy kiss, all tongue and teeth and raw need. _“Copia,”_ Papa growls, and Copia knows an order when he hears one. He pulls his fingers out and squeezes more lube onto his hand to slick up his cock. Papa rolls over onto his hands and knees, his ass in the air like an offering. Copia has a brief image of spreading Papa out on the altar in the main chapel, fucking him in the church's most sacred space, surrounded by ritual candles, the heady scent of incense filling their lungs. Papa would be delighted by the taboo of it.

They both groan when he pushes inside. Papa is almost overwhelmingly tight and Copia has to pause before he's even all the way in, afraid that he will come too soon – that would be embarrassing. But he can hardly be blamed; it's been so long and Papa is clenching so deliciously around him, thrusting his hips back to encourage him to keep going. When he finally bottoms out, Copia falls forward, resting his forehead between Papa's shoulder blades as he takes a moment to steady his breathing and let them both adjust to the sensation. He starts off with short, shallow thrusts until he can be sure he won't hurt Papa by driving into him hard and fast. Papa does not share Copia's patience and he grits out a broken, breathless litany of needy demands: _“Come on, fuck me, I can take it.”_

Copia decides to toy with him – but only a little, because his own restraint is wearing thin. “Good things come to those who wait,” he teases, while he holds Papa's hips in place to keep him from fucking himself on Copia's cock.

Papa groans. “If you want to _come_ at all, you'd better -” Copia cuts off his snarky retort by pulling all the way out and slamming back in, holding Papa's ass flush against his own hips. Papa lets out a cry followed by a dark huff of laughter. “That's more like it.”

Copia starts to build a steady rhythm, enough to satisfy but still keeping himself in check enough to not let completely loose just yet. He wants this to last. He takes in the suffocating heat of Papa around him, so tight he almost can't take it, the slick sounds of skin against skin and the desperate moans dripping from Papa's mouth. It's almost perfect, it's almost too much, but somehow it isn't quite enough. When Copia realizes what's missing, he pulls out completely, causing Papa to whine in protest. But before he can complain Copia flips him onto his back, lifts his hips and pushes back into him.

 _This_ is perfect. Papa throws his head back against the pillow, his neck exposed so beautifully that Copia can't help but sink his teeth into it. Papa lets out a few colorful expletives as Copia bites and sucks and licks at his throat. He knows he'll leave marks and he knows Papa will display them proudly, not bothering to cover them with makeup before official meetings. Copia's colleagues will pretend not to see, and there's no way they could ever guess who left the marks, but he will know. They will know, and when Copia passes Papa in the halls, bruises standing out above the collar of his papal robes, he will have to fight the desire to push him against the wall and run his tongue over each one.

When Papa wraps his legs around his waist Copia finally casts the last of his restraint to the wind and gives everything he's got, fucking Papa at an unforgiving pace. The slap of his balls against Papa's ass and the thump of the headboard against the wall are almost drowned out by Copia's heavy breathing and low groans, not to mention Papa's increasingly desperate cries. He's stunning, his eyes heavy-lidded but not closed, keeping his gaze on Copia. Copia meets it head-on. He wants to watch Papa fall completely apart.

And he's close, Copia can tell. He gets handsy when he's almost to that edge, reaching out to grip Copia's neck, stroke his face, grab his ass. He leans up on his elbow and presses sweet words into Copia's skin. _You're beautiful. You're perfect. I need you._ Copia imagines all of Papa's lovers have heard these same affectionate phrases, but he lets himself believe that they are only for him. Nothing else matters right now but the two of them – not the church, not Nihil, not the others who share Papa's bed when he's away. In this moment they are alone in a world of their own making, and in their world Papa is God and Copia will worship him until his dying breath. This bed will be their church, their altar, and Copia will kiss his prayers into Papa's body every night.

Copia reaches between them and strokes Papa's cock. Papa makes a small, broken sound and Copia braces one arm against the headboard to steady himself for when they both fall over that precipice. Papa comes first and Copia watches every beautiful expression that crosses his face: his eyes fall shut, his mouth goes slack as he lets out a long, low moan. Copia is right behind him, the way Papa's body clenches and tightens even more around him finally more than he can bear.

Again, times passes without them. Copia presses his forehead to Papa's chest as he waits for his racing heart to slow down. Papa wraps his arms around him, buries his face in Copia's hair, and they cling to each other for what feels like eternity. Eventually, Copia untangles their sweaty limbs and collapses onto the bed.

When his breathing finally returns to normal, he gets to his feet and makes his way to the large adjoining bathroom. He returns with a warm, damp cloth and cleans them both up. Papa is pliant, lazily stretching his long limbs and smiling up at Copia with half-open eyes.

Copia climbs back into bed and Papa immediately wraps himself around him, nuzzles his face against Copia's neck. Several minutes pass and Copia is sure Papa is asleep until he feels him gently kiss his throat and hears him whisper, “I missed you.”

Of course, it's easy for him to say that now. People say many things they don't mean in the pleasant haze of post-coital bliss.

Copia lets himself believe that he does mean it. It's a nice fantasy, one that he'll retreat to frequently when Papa is away again.

For now, he drapes a sheet over Papa's shoulders with as much reverence as if he were adorning him with a ceremonial robe. He says a silent prayer – and if he addresses it to the man lying in his arms rather than to their Lord, no one has to know but him.


End file.
